Airline Regulations
by LeighKelly
Summary: Embarking on the trip that will begin the rest of their lives together, Brittany and Santana discover that there is more than one way to pass the time on long flights. Two-Shot, part of the Lesbowaii 50 Shades of Sand Brittana Vacation Fic Spectacular.
1. Chapter 1

**So, remember the time that it became CANON that Brittana went on a months long vacation together? And remember the time that we didn't get to see it, because Glee doesn't actually air on Cinemax? Well guess what? The **_**50 Shades of Sand Vacation Fic Spectacular **_**is here, and over the next few days, you'll get six fics about the vacation we didn't get to see. I'm up first, but make sure you watch for some amazingness from Swinging Cloud, ishiheard2day, jellymankelly, mysecretlifeofwords, and a collab from Chuckleshan and PlayWithMagic, and follow the tag Lesbowaii on Tumblr to keep track of all the excitement!**

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"Okay, are you ready?" You ask, actually _hearing _the excitement in your own voice as you flip up the armrest between your seats and snuggle in closer to Brittany.

"Totally. How do you want to do it?"

"Kiss me."

"Like this?" Brittany presses her lips against your cheek, and your skin flames, even at the innocent gesture.

"Actually, I was thinking more like this."

Cupping Brittany's cheek with your hand, you draw her into a deep kiss, nearly forgetting your original purpose as soon as your lips touch, the same thing that seems to happen every single time you kiss since that afternoon in the choir room (or, if you're being completely honest, every time _ever_). It's Brittany who manages to grab your phone, snapping the shot of the two of you with your lips locked, the leather airplane seats (First Class, Brittany Pierce was apparently _not _messing around when it came to this trip) serving as a backdrop. You can't believe the unnatural level of excitement you feel about a _picture, _but even that pales in comparison to how much you're looking forward to your trip, to making up for lost time, to beginning the rest of your lives together. With neither of you ready to pull away from each other, you remain like that, drinking her in, sucking her bottom lip, letting her dip her tongue into your mouth, until a voice comes over the airplanes PA system, and you reluctantly pull away.

"_Ladies and gentlemen, this is Carla, your lead flight attendant speaking. On behalf of the captain and our entire crew, we'd like to welcome you all aboard Flight 6453 with nonstop service from Philadelphia to Athens."_

"Fuck. Britt, here, you're faster than me, do it before they tell us to turn the phone off." You thrust your phone into her hands and she just laughs, tapping quickly at the screen.

"You're really excited about this, aren't you?"

"_Obviously.__" _You roll your eyes playfully, then snatch Brittany's phone out of her sweatshirt pocket, trying to make sense of the layout so you can get into her apps.

"_Our flight time today is approximately ten hours and thirty-two minutes."_

"Faster Britt, do it faster."

"I'm going as fast as I can, stop pressuring me."

"_At this time, make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their fully upright and locked position."_

"Done!" Brittany pumps her fist and holds up your phone triumphantly, grinning when she notices that the home screen has been changed to one of the pictures she'd taken of herself in her graduation gown. Smiling sheepishly, you shrug your shoulders, because _obviously _you needed to have one of those pictures as your background, and you'll probably keep it long after the two of you take a million pictures together on vacation, you're just _that _proud of your _girlfriend._

"I sent it to myself while you were sleeping last night. I liked the ones you took better than the ones I did." You mumble shyly, and sort of relish the adoring look she sends your way. "God, what is taking this so long?"

"_We advise you that as of this moment any and all electronic-"_

"Not yet!" You yelp, just as the notification you've been waiting for appears on the screen of Brittany's phone.

_**Santana Lopez has sent you a relationship request.**_

"Here, accept it!" You pass the phone to Brittany, smiling at the picture that was under the request, and even though you know you're being a total dork about it, because it's just a lame Facebook relationship request, you can't even bring yourself to care. You're happy, happier than you've been since you left Lima for the first time, maybe happier than you've _ever_ been, and if that makes you take stupid pleasure in small, weird things, than you're _totally_ okay with that.

"Excuse me ladies, I'm going to have to ask you to turn your cellphones off now, the door has been closed for takeoff." A short, blonde flight attendant smiles warmly at you, a hint of a Boston accent obvious in her speech. As Brittany quickly hits the accept button and powers off both phones in her possession, she shoots a look in your direction, and you know exactly what she's thinking. She's marveling at the fact that you haven't shifted slightly away from her now that there is attention on you, you aren't trying hide your relationship from a stranger, you're just continuing about your business as usual. You remember that she hasn't seen this side of you before, that while she's seen you _out, _she's never seen this new you, the one who fully embraces who you are, who isn't so scared anymore, and you just give her a private smile, because you're still kind of proud of yourself too.

"Sorry about that. Just needed to change our relationship status on Facebook before we left the country." Brittany beams, bending to tuck your phones in the bag at her feet.

"Well congratulations! We're always really excited to have honeymooners fly with us. Just remember, save the _honeymooning _for Greece."

Before either of you can correct Olivia, her name tag reads, she sends you both a wink, and resumes shuffling her way down the aisle, telling other rule breaking rebels to put their phones away. You both erupt into a fit of giggles (yes, you giggle now, apparently), probably because it was a rational assumption that your change in relationship status on a transcontinental flight would be to _married, _rather than to _finally got our shit together and realized we belong together, _but nothing about your relationship with Brittany has ever been rational. Kissing her on the mouth one last time before take off, because you _can, _and you never want to stop, you take her hand in yours, and you squeeze it tightly, preparing yourself for takeoff, preparing yourself for the beginning of the rest of your lives.

Four hours later, after Olivia's come over with a bottle of champagne to celebrate your _marriage,_ and you decide that you should totally pretend to be newlyweds for your entire trip, because _duh, free shit_, the cabin lights have been dimmed, and almost everyone else has fallen asleep. Both of you are more than a little bit tipsy, the entire bottle of champagne long gone, and two glasses each of ouzo consumed (Brittany learned in her research for the trip that the weird, licoricey liquor was created in Lesbos, and she'd insisted that you both drink it on the plane in preparation). The flight is surprisingly empty, and the two of you are in the very front of the plane, while other travelers are scattered further back, giving you plenty of space and privacy. Somehow, in the process of reclining your seats fully to get some sleep, you've managed to wedge your whole body into Brittany's seat with her (thank God you're both thin, and First Class seats are far bigger than coach), feeling like you just _can__'__t _get close enough to her after so much time apart. With your back pressed just under the window, the two of you lay on your sides facing each other, toes, knees, bellies, breasts brushing underneath the huge blue blanket Brittany pulled out of her bag, just trading kisses back and forth. Your fingers play with the ends of her hair, and you inhale deeply, savoring the familiar scent of honey shampoo, the scent that you'd taken for granted during the years you'd been together, secretly, unofficially, officially, and that you hadn't even realized you'd been missing in the time you'd been apart.

"I'm so happy we're here." You murmur against Brittany's lips, tasting licorice and mint lip gloss and _Brittany._

"I'd prefer to be in a bed." She smirks, trailing her fingertips up the outside of your bare thigh. She's been making fun of you for wearing a dress on an eleven hour flight basically since the moment you'd put it on, but apparently, she's finding it more enjoyable than she'll admit, as the path her fingers are making keeps ending higher and higher. "In a room, with four walls, preferably soundproof."

"Well, by _here, _I meant as a state of being, back together, happy, not denying how much I love you anymore. But I _definitely _agree that there are _much _better places to be than on this plane."

"You _are_ being really good about your pteromerhanophobia though."

"My _what?_" You laugh, squeezing Brittany even tighter in your small shared space. Every time she says some kind of genius thing, some word you've never heard, some crazy math theory, you feel your heart swell with pride, because even if MIT wasn't her dream, you've still always known that she's _capable _of doing so much more than people expect of her.

"Fear of flying, duh." She rolls her eyes. "I thought I'd have to come up with _creative _ways to distract you."

"Hmm. What kind of creative ways?" You raise an eyebrow, nipping gently at Brittany's lower lip.

"The kind we'd be glad that everyone else on this flight is sleeping for. But I guess we don't have to worry about it, you know, since you're doing so well."

"Suddenly I'm feeling absolutely terrified." You hide your face in your hands, and laugh behind them as Brittany attempts to peel them back.

"Then I think we should probably do something about that, shouldn't we? Our epic vacation can't be ruined because you were sad on the flight over." She plays along.

When you spread your fingers and peek through them, Brittany's eyes are dancing with mischief, and you grin, because she's just so damn cute that you can't actually handle it. When she kisses you quickly again, like she's reluctant to pull away even for a second, and then pushes herself up, tugging her sweatshirt off before peering over the seat to glance around the cabin, you feel your heart start to race in anticipation. You're pretty sure you're about to have sex on a plane, and even though you're _positive_ that you'll be breaking all kinds of airline regulations, and possibly international laws, you'd be lying if you said that didn't send a jolt of arousal straight through you.

"Looks like everyone's sleeping." She grins cheekily, and nudges your shoulder so that you're no longer lying on your side, but instead, flat on your back.

She does that weird switch flipping thing that she's always done, going from absolutely adorable to sexy and smoldering in about three seconds flat, and you sort of suspect that it _must _be some kind of super power. She slips back under the blanket on top of you (and you realize that she _probably _packed a giant blanket for exactly his purpose), her weight pressing down so comfortingly on your body, and you feel a sense of desperation for her take over. It doesn't matter that you woke up in her bed at her parents' house this morning, or that you have been _making up for lost time _(read: having lots and lots of sex) since you told her that _she_ was your choice, and you _did _want her two days ago, you still kiss her hungrily, your hand on the back of her neck drawing her closer to you.

It's weird, because you'd always figured that joining the Mile High Club would be quick and dirty, but here you are, making out with Brittany like you're in your old bedroom, like other people can't wake up and sense what you're doing, or the flight attendants gossiping in the back of the plane can't walk by and stop you, like you have all the time in the world. It's a thrill, definitely, and you bite back a moan as Brittany trails kisses across your jawline and sucks hard on the pulse point at the hollow of your throat. While Brittany's hands knead at the back of your bare thighs, the tips of her fingers repeatedly grazing the curve of your ass, yours play at the hem of her tank top, teasing there before letting them slip underneath, up to her braless chest. Her motions still when your thumbs brush her already stiff nipples, and you feel goosebumps raise on her skin, and the release of her warm breath in a hiss against your neck. She squirms a little above you, her eyes turning dark, and you feel a small sense of self-satisfaction at taking control of the situation.

When her lips reattach to yours, you slide one hand out from under her shirt, and down to the waistband of her sweatpants, still squeezing her left breast with your other. You're desperate to dip underneath, to touch her, to be inside of her, but when she grabs your wrist and gives you her sexy smirk, you realize that for the split second you thought you were in control, you never _actually _were, you're putty in her hands, and you'll never admit to anyone else just how easily you submit to Brittany, how much you _love _for her take control of your body. Before you can fully process what's happening, your gorgeous girl winks at you, and ducks her blonde head under the blanket, sliding down, and leaving a trail of open mouth kisses on your clothed breasts and stomach.

"Britt, what are you-?" You lift the blanket and gasp as you watch Brittany squat on the floor, wedging her body between the wall in front of you and your seat, and pulling you closer to her by your calves.

"What do you _think _I'm doing?" She quirks an eyebrow, and you swear, you might overheat and die with how turned on you are. Sweaty and out of breath after the first time you'd had sex since getting back together, you'd quietly confessed to Brittany that even though you'd slept with other people, you hadn't allowed anyone else to go down on you, or, for that matter, gone down on everyone else. It was too intimate, made you feel too vulnerable, and those are feelings you can only handle with Brittany. Since the words left your mouth, Brittany was insistent upon using _hers_ whenever, wherever she could, apparently, including right in the middle of a flight to Greece. "Think you can keep quiet?"

"Fuck, Brittany Pierce, you're going to kill me." You bite down on the inside of your wrist, knowing that you're _anything _but quiet, especially since you _already _feel arousal pooling between your legs, just from kissing her.

"Well then maybe I should stop. I wouldn't want to get you back and then have you die on me so soon." She teases, but as she spreads your thighs further apart and begins placing sucking kisses on the inside of your right one, you know she has absolutely _no _intention of stopping.

"You wouldn't." Your wrist muffles your words, and you use your other hand to sweep her hair off of her face as you keep your head tucked under the blanket, wanting to watch her every motion.

Brittany doesn't answer you, she just presses her lips back to your skin, sucking and nipping her way from just above your knee to just below where you _know _that you're absurdly wet for her. Just when you think her torturous trail is over, she locks her blue eyes with yours and purses her lips, blowing you an invisible kiss before she makes the same trail on your left thigh, her tongue darting out to lick your skin, just because she wants you to _see _it, and think about what she'll be using it for soon enough (and you're sure someday, that tongue will actually the the death of you, the most pleasurable death ever to occur). If you were thinking rationally, you'd worry about the bruises that are sure to bloom from her actions, especially because you plan on spending a good part of the next few months in a bikini, but when the love of your life has crammed herself into a tight space and has her face inches from your throbbing center, there's not really any room left in your head for rational thought.

Pushing up your dress so it gathers just below your chest, Brittany hooks her thumbs into the waistband of your thong, and you lift yourself off the seat so she can pull it off of you completely. She insists on moving agonizingly slow as she does so, letting the tips of her long fingers graze all the way down your legs, lingering on your ankles and tickling the arches of your bare feet, making you squirm in anticipation of what's to come. The hand that isn't currently shoved halfway into your mouth twitches for something to do, until Brittany slips the scrap of fabric she finishes removing into it, and you squeeze it into a fist, dropping your clenched knuckles against your newly exposed stomach. Brittany continues her teasing, grazing her teeth against your lower abdomen and down your hipbone, and you're glad for the white noise that exists inside the plane, because you're sure that even your hand is incapable of stifling the guttural moan that you release.

"Shh." Brittany breathes, just as she lifts one of your legs over her shoulder, and the sensation of the hot air from her mouth sends tickles of pleasure down your spine.

"Please, Britt." You try to whisper, but you aren't sure if you're quiet, or really, even if you're making comprehensible words at all.

Given the fact that you're already trembling and pleading, and if she teases you much longer, you'll probably come before she actually makes contact with your sex (you're embarrassed to admit that it wouldn't be the first time that's happened, but whatever, she's _so _sexy you can't help what she does to your body) Brittany takes a small amount of pity on you and presses her tongue against your entrance, not quite dipping inside. Involuntarily, your hips cant up to meet her mouth, and you can feel her smile against you as she pushes you back down into the seat, giving in to what you want, but only for a brief instant. Even in the low light under the blanket, you can clearly see the look of adoration in her eyes as she removes it again, and then wraps her lips around your clit, your thighs beginning to shake when she flicks her tongue against it. All you can think, in that moment, while you feel the beginning of the tingles at the tips of your toes, and you're just about convinced that Brittany can see straight into your soul, is the same thing that's been reaffirmed every minute since you got back together with your _soulmate, _that with feelings, it really, really is so much better than anything else.

As you bite harder down on your wrist, hard enough that you're sure you'll break the skin, and your body shudders at the combination of the pain there and the pleasure building in your lower belly, your other hand unfurls, dropping the fabric from inside. You bring it to Brittany's face, running your thumb over the apple of her cheek, silently appreciating what she's doing to your body, since you can't cry out (or else you really _may _end up living out your life on a lesbian island, after you're banned from all future air travel), and your hand weaves it's way into her hair. As Brittany alternates between licking and sucking, your grasp tightens there, and your eyes slip closed. When you feel Brittany twist her tongue inside of you one last time, before replacing it with two fingers, you squeak, trading your wrist for the crook of your elbow, knowing you need more to muffle the sounds you can no longer control. She shifts slightly, never breaking the rhythm of her fingers, never removing her lips from where they're working your sensitive clit, and when you open your eyes back up to watch her, you nearly come on the spot when you realize what she's doing.

"So fucking hot." You manage, your words muffled by the inside of your elbow.

Although you can't fully _see_ what's happening, you can _tell _by the way she's moving that while she's fucking you with her right hand, she's slipped her left into her own panties and is touching herself. You're torn between looking into her eyes, and closing yours again, wanting to imagine _your _fingers inside her, your fingers making her writhe the same way you're on the verge of. She's really gotten herself worked up, you can feel it in the way she pants against your sex, and suddenly, even _without_ closing your eyes, the visual in your head, combined with _everything _her hand and mouth are doing between your legs prove too much, and stars begin to invade the corners of your vision.

"Come for me, baby." She rasps out, and you throw your head back, letting the most intense orgasm of your life wrack through your body.

You're shaking, and everything is just slightly fuzzy while Brittany draws her fingers out of you, but continues to lick gently, helping to bring you down. When you manage to lift your head back up, you see her eyes fighting to stay open, her face contorted in pleasure, and you know that she's still inside herself, and are so grateful that she hasn't come yet. You want, no you _need _to be the one who makes her shatter, you need to feel her around your fingers, you need to watch her eyes turn the color of the deepest sea as she gets dragged under by pleasure.

"Come here." You bring your hand to her forearm, removing hers from her pants and tugging her upwards.

She doesn't bother to pull down your dress as she unfolds herself and crawls up your body, the blanket that's covering you barely rippling with her graceful motions. Still out of breath and sort of delirious, you connect your mouth with Brittany's, moaning into it as your taste yourself there. Her tongue moves against yours, and you waste no time plunging below the elastic band of her pants, sliding through the wet heat of her folds. You feel her shudder as your thumb brushes her sensitive nerves, and your breath catches at just how ready she is for you, how easily you can push three fingers inside of her, how quickly she stretches to accommodate them.

"Your fingers feel…ugh...so much better than mine." She groans, digging her short nails into the back of your neck.

As you begin pumping in and out of her, Brittany can no longer maintain your kiss, she's too close from her own ministrations, and she drops her head, sinking her teeth into your shoulder to quiet the whimpers that don't stop escaping her lips. You feel her stiffen above you, and you suck hard on your favorite patch of skin on her neck, just below her ear, before redoubling your efforts, curling your fingers, hitting her spot over and over again, wanting her to come as hard as you, wanting her to feel like the entire world is falling out from underneath her. When you know she's just about there, her entire body quivering and _oh, _so sexy, you cup her cheek again, letting her forehead fall to rest against yours as your brush kisses over her lips and chin, urging her over the edge. When she tightens around your fingers, her body naturally drawing you further in, you kiss her deeply, swallowing her soft cries as she plummets.

You're both a sweaty mess of tangled limbs, back on your sides, while you try to regain composure. Brittany somehow manages the strength to tug the blanket to cover both of your heads, encasing you in a blue cocoon with only each other. While your fingers tickle up and down Brittany's ribcage where her shirt has risen up, she brings your wrist to her lips, softly kissing the angry red welts there, soothing the sting that your teeth left. You feel safe, and loved, and so, so happy after what you're sure is the first of _many _once in a lifetime experiences you'll have with Brittany on this trip.

"I love you." She sighs, kissing your drooping eyelids, and you feel like it's possible that you're smiling so brightly that it might light up the entire world.

"I love you too, so much." You move your hand up to her heart, and let it linger there as the rhythm slows back to normal. "That was the best fake-marriage consummation of all time."

"Imagine what our _real _marriage consummation will bring." Brittany teases, and if anyone else _ever _joked with you about marriage, you know you'd probably die of commitment-phobia, but with Brittany, you _know _it's an inevitability. You know that someday in the not-so-distant future, there will be wedding rings and chasing dreams together as _wives_, because that's _always _how it was meant to be.

"I'm totally going to love being fake-Mrs. Pierce." You say, but that adoring look in Brittany's eyes is back, and you're pretty sure she knows that you mean someday you'll enjoy being _real _Mrs. Pierce too.

"Well, we should get some sleep, wifey." Brittany grins, and you cuddle into her chest, letting her drape her arm across your shoulders. "See you in Athens."


	2. Chapter 2

**Here we go, part two! Big thanks to all of you who've checked this out. Last night, Chuckleshan & PlayWithMagic dropped their contribution to **_**50 Shades of Sand, **_**and if you haven't checked it out, you should! We still have four more stories coming up for this project, so prepare yourselves!**

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When you'd woken up earlier this morning in your room in Kauai, the warm sea breeze blowing through the open double doors to your balcony, and your face pressed against the slightly sunburned skin of Brittany's naked chest, you thought that you'd be filled with a sense of dread as the reality of returning to _real life _after six months of fake honeymooning set in. You were surprised though when it didn't, you were surprised that after calling Mercedes to confirm that she was using Berry's driver to pick you up at the airport (you'd really missed a lot, while you were wrapped up in your Brittany bliss, apparently), you felt sort of _excited _to go back to New York, to go back _home, _a feeling that's continued as the day progresses. Your extended vacation may be ending, but the end of that only means the beginning of everything else, the beginning of sharing the city that you've fallen in love with, with the _woman _who you love more than anything, the beginning of the plans you've been making, the ones Brittany knows about, and the ones she doesn't.

You've already gone through the harrowing plane change at LAX, where the two of you sprinted through the airport, because your arriving flight was late (and in your thirty-two hour excursion from Greece to Hawaii three months earlier, you'd already done the whole flight missing, yelling at airline employees thing, an experience you have no desire to ever repeat), and you're about four hours into your flight from California to New York. Brittany has been asleep basically since the plane lifted off from the runway, and your arm is wrapped protectively around her as she nuzzles into the black letters printed across the front of your t-shirt, a twin of the one she is wearing. You smile to yourself, both because you love the souvenir t-shirts you'd found in Greece, and because you can't really believe the two of you are dressed all matchy-matchy in said t-shirts for your journey _home_. You're pretty sure Mercedes will make fun of how the two of you suddenly turned middle aged, and if Kurt takes the trip out to the airport with her, he'll make some kind of comment about lesbian bed death, because he has a weird, inexplicable fascination with it (and he'll gag when Brittany over-shares the reasons why you have _no _reason to worry about that, and you just grin smugly), but the truth is, you're more comfortable than you've ever been in your life, and good natured teasing won't change that in the slightest.

Shoving the copy of Cosmo you've been skimming through (although you're not sure why you even bought it in the first place, since you have absolutely no use for tips to improve your blow jobs) into the seat back pocket in front of you, you choose to watch Brittany instead. You're usually the first one to pass out at night, and the last to wake up in the morning, so being able to watch her as she sleeps isn't something you get to do very often. Her cheeks are warm and red from too much time in the sun, and her lips are parted slightly, small snoring noises escaping them. Your heart feels really full, and although that feeling used to terrify you, now you know that your heart _not _feeling full is something so much _more _terrifying. But that's a terror you don't have to think about any longer. Sure, Brittany is going to drive back to Lima with her dad when he comes to New York for work next week, she has to pack some things she left there, after all, and it'll feel weird sleeping without her for a few days after so long, but you'll still be _together_, she'll still be coming back to you, and knowing that, you feel like your heart can't ever hurt the way it used to. With your pointer finger, you graze over the fading yellow bruise below Brittany's ear, the one that never seems to fully disappear, because you have a weakness for that small patch of skin there, and you really can never control what your mouth does to it. You trail down her sensitive neck, and slowly trace the Greek letters on her chest, the word Λεσβιακά standing out against the white background, and you just can't believe you've really come this far, together, and apart, and together again.

When the two of you had been shopping in Lesbos, looking for cheesy plastic statues and bottles olive oil in some kitschy souvenir shop, the black lettered white t-shirts had immediately caught your eye, reminding you of a different shirt, a different _life. _While Brittany was at the other end of the store, you'd asked the English speaking shopkeeper what the word was, and it was like fate and some god of second chances (Persephone, if you were going with the Greek theme, _was _the goddess of new beginnings) was intervening when she'd told you _it is the word for the people of this isle, _the Greek word for _Lesbian. _You'd hastily handed her a fist full of Euros for two of them, because even if Brittany wasn't technically a lesbian, you _knew _she'd want one too, and shoved them into your bag before your girlfriend bounced back over to your side, ready to check out another store. When you'd come out of the bathroom later that night, wearing nothing but that shirt, Brittany's eyes widened (because she was obsessed with the goddamn guidebook and recognized _exactly _what that word meant), and she gasped a little before throwing herself into your arms, kissing you until she stole your breath away. After you held out her shirt for her, she'd excitedly shed her clothes and pulled it over her head so they two of you could dance together around your hotel room, pantless and breathless, until she threw you down on the bed and basically made it her personal mission to keep you from walking for the better part of two days, your shirt never being removed while she did so.

"Copping a feel?" Brittany mumbles out sleepily, peeking one eye open. "'Cuz I think this flight is too crowded for that, and I know you're against sex in public bathrooms."

"Because it's disgusting." You roll your eyes. "I like my sweet lady kisses without a side of gonorrhea, thank you very much."

"Wow, that totally turned me on." She gags, and you laugh, reminded that in addition to reconnecting romantically on your trip, you also have best friend back. The girl who makes you laugh, who makes fun of people with you, who just _gets _you like no one else ever has, and you're just as happy to have _that_ back as everything else.

"Wasn't trying to, babe. We've had sex on three different flights, we're already MVPs of the Mile High Club even without a fourth. And besides, I'm kind of content just like this, getting our cuddle on."

"Me too. You've kind of tired me out." She winks, and takes your hand, playing with your fingers, filling the spaces between them with hers, occasionally bringing them to her lips and kissing them, as the two of you sit there, quiet and content for a long while.

"I'm going to miss pretending to be married." You confess in a single breath, your heart hammering in your ears as you consider the thing that has sort of consumed your mind since you'd accidentally (or maybe fatefully) stumbled into hotel jewelry store while going on a drunk run for Doritos three days ago. It hits you suddenly, that you don't want to wait to do it, you want to ask her the thing that's been burning in your mind before your flight touches down in New York.

"So am I." Brittany tells you, looking up from your hands and into your eyes.

"I've been thinking...about stuff." You start, and you realize that after the two epic speeches she gave you months ago, back in Lima, you feel sort of inadequate when it comes to formulating words to express what you want. You're better at revealing yourself with your body, you always have been, it's how Brittany once _knew _how you felt, when your words spoke the contrary. But that this time, if you're really going to do this, you need to do it verbally. When you hesitate, she just nods, encouraging you on without interrupting. "I love you, Brittany. I love you so much that it used to scare me, but now it just makes me feel happy and complete. I'm pretty sure that for my whole life, even when I didn't know it, I didn't want anything else but you. You understand me like no one else does, and you make me feel like I'm a good person, even when no one else believes it. You're just...you're it for me, Britt. You told me that you're sure you belong with me, and I'm sure that I belong with you too, I think I've _always _been sure of that. I want to _be _with you, for the rest of my life, no matter what."

"I want that too." Brittany whispers, and you swallow the huge lump in your throat, trying not to let yourself cry until you finish this.

"I don't know how to do those huge love declarations, with a room full of people serenading you, or whatever. But if you want something public and unforgettable, I swear, I'll hijack the PA system…wait, oh my God, I can't say that word on an airplane…I…I didn't mean it like that...fucking airline regulations, ugh." Panic flashes behind your eyes, as your head pops up, frantically looking around to make sure there isn't an air marshal rushing to arrest you, and you feel like you're starting to hyperventilate.

"Hey." Brittany kisses you on the mouth, because she knows that's the one thing that will, without fail, calm you down. "It's okay, it's okay, no one heard you. Relax, it's just you and me, Santana."

"I'm just…I'm not good with showing my feelings in front of a lot of people, but you _deserve _that, and if you want me to, I'll tell all five hundred people on this plane that I love you, that I have always loved you, I _will_ always love you. I'll get up on my seat and sing _Endless Love _right now." You go to stand up, seriously feeling like you're massively failing at this proposal thing, and wishing you hadn't suddenly decided to wing it. Stilling your motions, Brittany grabs you by the wrist and pulls you back into your seat.

"You know I don't need anything like that." She tells you, tears filling her eyes, and you take her left hand in yours, trying not to throw up on her, because you're _that _nervous. "It means more than you know just hearing you tell _me._"

"I know that all of this is crazy, but I don't care, because I know it's what I want, what I _need. _Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

"Ask me." She tells you, because she does understand, of _course _she does, but she wants to let it be your moment.

"We're going home together, and I want to start the rest of our lives right. I loved every second of our vacation, but I know that I'm going to love our real life even more. I'm going to love waking up next to you in whatever crappy little apartment we can afford, I'm going to love packing lunches for each other in the mornings, and coming home exhausted from work to each others' arms at night. I'm even going to love going to the _ridiculous _dinners and karaoke nights with Hummelberry and company, because you'll be there with me to appreciate how lame they all are. I'm just going to love all the boring monotony of real life, because I love _you, _and with you, _everything _is so much more exciting. I don't need to wait until I'm twenty-five, or thirty to do this, because I _know _that all the years of my life won't change the way I feel about you. " You detach one of your hands and blindly fumble through your purse until you find the ring box you'd stashed beneath your travel documents. When you manage to dislodge the simple diamond ring from inside, you present it like a toddler would, holding it up to Brittany with what you know is the most hopeful look you've ever had on your face. When you turn it so she can see the engraving on the inside, she starts to laugh, and you're taken aback, because she's not supposed to _laugh _when you're trying to propose to her. "Why are you...? Do you not like it? Do you think I'm nuts?"

"Santana, I _love _it. And I love you. I want to fall in love with you all over again every day for the rest of my life too." Her eyes widen, and she quickly sucks her lips into her mouth, stopping herself from saying anything further.

"How did you...?" You trail off, hearing her speak the words that are engraved inside the platinum band, _ho'i hou me aloha_, in English.

"Ask me first, and I'll tell you." She mostly mouths, and you're pretty sure it's because she's crying so hard that actually speaking would just come out as incomprehensible squeaks.

"Brittany Pierce, will you marry me?" You stare deep into her eyes, because even though you _know _what her answer will be, you need to ground yourself with her as you ask the most important question of your life.

"I've wanted to marry you since I was twelve years old." She lets you slip the band on her, and you can't help but let a sob bubble out against her lips as she captures yours with a kiss. "Of course I will."

You kiss, and kiss, one hand twisting the engagement ring on her finger, the other threading through her hair, and you know that you can't breathe, but you also can't stop. You spent six months thinking that you were _pretending _to be married, except that it felt so real, and now you think that maybe it was more _practice _than pretense. Brittany said _yes, _the love of your life, this perfect angel of a woman agreed to marry _you, _and you're actually in such a state of shock that you're sure it can't actually be reality. You don't even know how much time passes before you finally separate, but when you do, both of your faces, yours and your _fianc__é__e's _are wet with tears. It's then that you remember that she'd known the meaning of the words that had captured your attention in that overpriced hotel jewelry store (although you'd reasoned that _nothing _would ever be too expensive for Brittany), words that you're sure weren't written in any guidebook, and you look at her curiously.

"Go in the side pocket of my bag." She tells you, and when you open your mouth to protest, refusing to pull out what you _think _is still in there, she giggles, pecking your lips. "I checked it this time, you goof. I didn't want you to die of embarrassment in the airport like you almost did in Mytilene."

"It was the single most mortifying moment of my life, Brittany. Of _course _they flagged your bag, and when that big hairy security agent pulled out a hot pink dildo…" You shudder at the thought of the family of German tourists gaping at the scene while you considered crawling under the x-ray machine and never coming back out. "And then you _winked _at me."

"In all fairness, I didn't _mean _to wink at you. I just love you so much." She shrugs, giving you that innocent face of hers, which you roll your eyes to. "And seeing you get all flushed and flustered over that reminded me of how hot you look when you're sprawled out on the bed and I'm deep inside of you, and the noises that you make, and…"

"Shhh." You press your fingers against her lips as you feel the heat in the tips of your ears, and you know that she has to stop saying things like that or you'll _totally _break the no bathroom sex rule that you've so diligently stuck to for six months. "Not cute."

"Cute enough that you asked me to marry you though." She flashes you her biggest grin, tugging your joined hands up so she can look at the engagement ring again. Your heart flutters, seeing it on her finger, and you let out another happy sigh. "I'll go in the bag, since you're afraid of what I've hidden in there."

Kissing you _again, _because seriously, you just got engaged, and you'll probably just keep kissing each other all day, all week, all month, or actually, just for the rest of your life, she ducks her head down and pulls her bag out from under the seat in front of her. You hear the sound of a zipper, and wait, feeling strangely nervous. When she comes back up, she holds a black velvet box identical to the one you'd liberated her ring from, and it's your turn to start laughing. Her thumb pops open the hinge, and then you start crying again when you see a very different ring than the one on Brittany's finger, but with that same Hawaiian phrase scripted inside.

"You were going to…?" You don't bother to finish your sentence, because _obviously _if she's holding a ring, she had planned to propose too, and you look back and forth between the sparkle of the marquise diamond and the brighter sparkle of her damp eyes.

"Santana, I asked you to run away with me to a lesbian paradise. I didn't just mean the island." She laughs, and the corners of your mouth curl and your nose crinkles, because you hadn't even really _thought _about how sometimes Brittany asks you questions in a way that's designed to keep you from freaking out about too much too fast. "It wasn't a marriage proposal, but it was kind of the promise that one would happen eventually. Although now you beat me to it."

"I'm not really sorry about that." You poke your tongue between your teeth, and Brittany pokes you in one of your dimples.

"Neither am I. I had this whole idea in my head about taking you to Lamarca, and doing it there, because…" She doesn't finish, because she doesn't need to. You blink away tears at the thought of why it was so special to you both, after you'd taken her on _not-a-date _there, despite the fact that you spent the night playing footsie under the table before waving off her efforts to pay, when you'd been in New York for Nationals three years ago. "But I wanted to wait and make sure you were really ready before I asked you though."

"I'm ready. I'm so ready." Your breath hitches as she slips the ring on your finger, and more tears fall from your eyes. "I can't believe you were going to propose at Lamarca."

"It's where we decided we wanted to go to New York after graduation. Even though it didn't happen in the way we planned, or maybe _especially _because it didn't, I thought it would be a good place to start our life there together."

"God, you're so much more romantic than me." You frown a little, and she kisses it away, slowly sliding the ring down the appropriate finger on your left hand.

"I don't think many people can say they got engaged at forty-thousand feet, that's pretty romantic." She reassures you, and you curl back into her side, holding out both of your hands in front of you, admiring the rings on your fingers, trying to really process that it's real, that you're actually engaged to Brittany, that you both saw the same expression of love, and thought of each other. But that's always been the dream, that old Hawaiian proverb, you're sure of it, falling in love with the same person, with _Brittany, _over and over again, thousands of times, every single day until you take your last breath.

You don't talk much for the rest of the flight, you just savor the most content silence of your life, and when _you _aren't staring at your hands, you catch Brittany in the act. When the flight attendant walks past, you smile to yourself, because you've spent your entire trip getting free stuff, and now that you _actually _have a reason to accept free champagne and celebrate, you don't feel the need for it. You'd rather have the time alone (or as alone as you can be on a crowded airplane) with Brittany's arms around you, and _her _excitement combining with yours and reverberating through every nerve in your body. There will be plenty of time later for champagne, for the two of you to actually have the dinner Brittany had planned, for crazy amounts of sex (which may make Mercedes regret letting you stay in her apartment until you find your own place) so you feel absolutely no need to rush your celebrations.

When you disembark from the plane after landing, and you stand just outside the jetway, shifting carryon bags and digging out cellphones, it feels different than it ever has after touching down in this city. You've called New York home for a while now, but _home_ was just a word, an abstract idea, void of meaning, until this very moment, when you look over at Brittany, staring out the window at the silhouette of the Manhattan skyline before her. Staring at her, you know instantly that this city truly _is _home for you for the first time, because in all your struggling to find where you belonged, it was never a place, it was a person, it was _Brittany. _New York suddenly feels as magical as it did the first time you set foot in it, because Brittany, with her love and her hope, Brittany, who's ring you now wear on your finger, and who wears yours on hers, has brought the magic back, has given you reason to believe that amazing things really _will _happen in the place she claimed was _as big and hot as you are._

"Welcome to New York, Brittany." You exhale, giddiness coloring your voice. When she looks over her shoulder at you, her eyes brimming with all the emotions you feel yourself, you can't help but drop your bags on the floor and wrap your arms around her waist. You lift her from the ground, and spin her in a circle as you both laugh and laugh, and you garner, you're sure, curious looks from other travelers, as you dance around an airport terminal in your matching shirts, but they are looks you cannot care less about if you tried, because you're just so in love, and just so happy. As if reading your mind, Brittany presses her lips against yours, and the words she breathes into your mouth are unmistakable.

"Welcome home, Santana."


End file.
